nest
collected natural material from the meadow surrounding Depo Podeune along with industrial material found within the train station, string, lace, suitcase, video projection, butterflies, 2016
This site specific installation was executed for the 10th Annual Water Tower Art Festival, Last 10, in Sofia, Bulgaria in 2016.
The Origins of "Abstract Oxygen"
came from an application I wrote in 2014, but it just kinda stuck (I was rejected, but that doesn't matter)
Written by Sophia Stopper
Jun 11, 2026
To attempt to be rid of a stain left by a mentally inflicted trauma is the same kind of impossibility of physically loving an inanimate object until it emotionally loves you in return.
My artwork gives me the strength to find meaning in trauma. The ability to take control of the uncontrollable. The grace to make pain into beauty. My artwork fills my lungs with air and I only hope the feeling may be mutual among those who find themselves in need of this Abstract Oxygen.
In discussing the power of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, Mary Karr explains,
If you are no stranger to such soul-paralyzing mind states as the poem creates,
It brings you into a community of like sufferers
giving that community
the conviction to live
their lives. *1.
In the poetry world, The Waste Land tore down the tired constrictions of iambic pentameter in the early 20th century and introduced the beauty of free verse— a process I see reflected quite clearly in the art world today as artists become increasingly bored and frustrated with the white box gallery spaces which attempt to house our work.
I recall the walls were yellow. Bright Yellow. The fluorescent lights exaggerated this. The walls were once painted blue. I know this because above my cell bunk bed was a childlike illustration of a home scene desperately carved into the top layer of paint along with the words “hold on ill be home soon.” They were blue, but the walls—the walls were yellow.
A work of art is good if it has sprung from necessity. *2.
The greatest work of art I have ever seen did not greet me through the doors of a gallery, but instead came from the hands of a woman who was trapped. Trapped and had nothing. Nothing but her memory, her love and her ability to create.
I have always preferred a poetry where the fingerprints show.
A poetry of loam, where water can sing. A poetry of bread, where everyone may eat.
The people continued to sing with their clay, their earth, their rivers, their ores.
They did all this by their hands alone.
These hands were clumsy, but they were wise. They were blind, but they broke stone. They were dark, but they sought the light. *3.
A woman need nothing beside her breath to make art, but a woman must have freedom in order for her art to have a heard voice.
I have assumed the poet’s time-honored obligation to defend the people, the poor and the exploited.
Is this important? I think these are obsessions shared by everyone who has ever written, who writes, or ever will write poetry. *4.
As a woman who does not identify with the feminist movement in 2014, I feel a great need to retrace the evolution of this movement over the last century, beginning with Anaïs Nin and Gertrude Stein, in order to better understand where we are as a species today. For this residency, I would like to use the granted time and space to read, think, write, and develop a more educated and raw voice in this fight for human equality through continuing to blur the lines between art, poetry and daily existence.
These are my parents when they were newly together before they were married. Now they’ve been happily married for over 35 years. This is them sitting at the fireplace at their family restaurant they still own and literally cook at nearly every day. My mom started out as a cocktail waitress at Stopper’s when it was a nightclub and my dad owned it. My dad was engaged to another woman when he met my mom. That didn’t matter because once you find your person you know it. They are a true pinnacle of what a everlasting love looks like. Partners, best friends, in it til the end. Picture taken sometime in the 80s. Birdsboro, PA.*1. Mary Karr, How to Read “The Waste Land “ So it Alters Your Soul Rather Than Just Addling Your Head, The Waste Land & Other Writings
*2. Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
*3. Pablo Neruda, Poets of the People, Passions & Impressions
*4. Pablo Neruda, I Refuse to Chew Theories, Passions & Impressions